


Blurry Days and Blurry Nights

by NoxumBoots



Category: The Haunted (Minecraft)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Armen Is Pretty Edgy But For Good Reason, Armen Lives!AU, Cussing, Drake is Dumb and Full of Love, Gen, Herobrine Is Only Mentioned, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Someone Hug Maiya and Armen Please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 20:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19280872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxumBoots/pseuds/NoxumBoots
Summary: Most days, Armen still thought that Herobrine was inside of him.Most nights, Armen couldn't bring himself to sit by the fire.The days were spent walking and talking. The nights were spent sleeping and screaming.Blurry days, blurry nights.





	Blurry Days and Blurry Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in the span of about two hours, and is 80% Armen being sad and edgy. Also somebody give me more Maiya and Armen content, they deserve to be friends.
> 
> Maiya and Mia are the same people, but this spelling is more Elvish in nature.

Most days, Armen still thought that Herobrine was inside of him.

He could feel the spirit in his every thought, his every move. When he lifted his arm, there was no guarantee that he was controlling the movement; He could've been doing it instead, and letting him think it was his own. It was always a possibility.

Even his mind wasn't his own anymore. Horrible, blackened thoughts would slip inside him without permission. _Imagine how sharp that stick would be if you sharpened it, then impaled yourself on it. It would be pretty fun to see. Or if you were to stick your hand in the fire. Or scream at Drake without reason and then choke him. Slap Maiya. Kill Grayson. Off yourself._

He was tainted from its time inside him, or maybe it had never left him at all. He'd check his eyes periodically (aka every single time he got the chance), make sure they weren't white. They never were; he'd always just get his own baby blues staring up at him, looking as scared as he was. Perhaps it was an illusion, he was being tricked to think that he wasn't possessed anymore, and he was in some sort of dream.

Maybe he wasn't alive at all.

 

* * *

 

Most nights, Armen couldn't bring himself to sit by the fire. He was scared of it now. The orange and gold and the heat and smell instilled fear in him, and he slept as far away from it as he could, even if he was freezing. It was a better alternative.

Some of those nights (well, most of them, if he was honest with himself), Drake would join him away from the fire. He'd take his sleeping bag, walk over, and settle it next to Armen. Then he'd just sit down next to him, and maybe start reading, or practice a few little spells. They didn't talk much, and when they did, it was short. Like how was your day or what do those words you said mean or why does Grayson pick every single berry off the bush? Eventually, Maiya would go to sleep, and Grayson would take first watch, and Armen would be smushed into bed by Drake. Sometimes he took his own sleeping bag, sometimes he slept in Drake's (no bromo, it was warm in there and it was the asscrack of winter right now).

The first time, Armen had questioned it, wondering why Drake would come by him instead of by his friends. Why he'd indulge his questions and time. Why he'd bother at all.

Drake had replied, "You'll get cold."

And that was that.

 

* * *

 

It had been a hopeful wish that he would be able to sleep easy. That he could just turn off his buzzing brain and be done with the world for a solid nine or ten hours. But nope. He was starting to realize that nothing he did would be easy at all.

The nights were unpleasant. Nope, scratch that, they were terrible. Horrible. Straight-up bull. His dreams were very set on reminding him, on the daily, of what he had done or was capable of doing. His hands held knives, swords, WERE sharp, and soaked in blood from people that he didn't know, and sometimes did, but he tended to forget who when he woke up. Sometimes he flew, and then he fell at a speed that he didn't know was possible, into the murky depths of unforgiving souls. Seeing a calm, wholesome scene, then his vision going white as he lost control of his hands, his body, his mind, and watching as he did horrible things. Sparking tiny fires in a grassy plain, and letting them grow to blazing hellfire. Killing small creatures and letting their guts spill. Watching the world crumble under his palm.

Whatever the night decided was on the menu, it always ended with him waking up screaming bloody murder. The sound woke everyone up in the camp because he was selfish like that and didn't like giving people a good night's sleep. Drake would be right next to him and would grip him with all his strength, all but crushing him with his body until he calmed down. Sometimes he calmed down in seconds. Other times, it took hours, and he'd see the sun come up. Drake's heartbeat, though, his breathing, the tight grip around his body squeezing the panic out of him; it always worked eventually.

He'd give Drake a nod, or maybe a hug, or he'd flop lifelessly around, completely exhausted from the night terror. Drake would wipe the tears off his face, give a few comforting words, and lay down with Armen still in his arms. Not that he was complaining, though, it was just funny. Drake was a clingy sleeper when he was younger. Seems like some things didn't change too much.

 

* * *

 

 

Armen was a nervous talker. Put him in a bad situation and bam: Blah blah blah. His voice would get all squeaky, and his palms sweaty, and he'd make a complete fool of himself, guaranteed! Every. Single. Time.

That still happened now, of course. He couldn't let go of THAT trait so easily. But it was...different. He would blab off his face as he stared potential death in the face ("Armen, that's a flower, I know it's got teeth but PLEASE-"), wring his hands under pressure, and look dumb.

But sometimes, when he got scared- REALLY scared- his mouth broke. He'd open his mouth to quip something, maybe about how many people were in this square, or maybe something stupid like the color of the sunset, and nothing would come out. Dead silence, maybe a soft whine, but no words. It just...it didn't work. Busted pipes.

Grayson assured him, one day (which had been pretty bad, in his humble opinion), that his mouth wasn't broken. In fact, a lot of soldiers in his division had the same problem sometimes. They couldn't talk about certain things without freezing up. Locking down.

Armen didn't feel frozen or locked up. He felt trapped. He felt like he was choking on his words and feelings that were lodged in his throat and wouldn't come up. He most DEFINITELY felt broken, despite what Grayson said.

"Victors survive in any way they can, Armen. Don't worry."

He wasn't a victor. And he was ALWAYS worried.

 

* * *

 

"You okay, Armen?"

That was Grayson's voice. He felt fine, mostly, toes digging into his boots that were a size too big. Okay, maybe a bit nervous. But there was nothing to be nervous about! What even was his life anymore? There were just trees and leaves and grass and the breeze and only three-quarters of that was flammable.

"Hey." A hand patted his back, long fingers and that hand could only belong to Drake. He looked up to see the ender hybrid- his best friend- staring at him in concern.

He opened his mouth to say something, only for it to close up. Wonderful this was the PERFECT time for a freeze up. Drake's eyebrows did this little thing that they always did when he was worried; they scrunched up as he both looked frustrated and sad. He tried again, and no sound, just a squeak.

Thankfully, Drake seemed to understand. One way or another. Maybe because they were practically brothers.

_I'm scared,_ Armen's eyes said.

_I know_ , Drake's replied.

"Okay then, might as well..." Drake startled him by talking, then grabbing him under the arms and starting to carry him. He let out an undignified sound and started kicking because Drake might've been a good two feet taller but he was NOT an infant! Drake had none of that, though, and shifted the position so that Armen was on his back, piggyback style.

He heard Maiya snicker, and his cheeks lit up red. Oh, he wasn't going to hear the end of this, was he? He groaned and tried to hide in Drake's shoulder.

"I- okie dokie, let's go." Grayson rolled his shoulders and kept going, compass in one hand and map in the other. Maiya was next, still looking at them with that cute little face before walking away. Drake and Armen took the rear, the latter suddenly feeling tired beyond belief. His soul was about to fall out of his body and start snoring at this rate.

For a moment, his voice worked, though it was a bit rough. "Sorry."

Drake smiled back at him, all teeth and understanding. "It's alright, dude."

Maybe not. But Drake was warm and solid, and Armen was too tired to argue that it wasn't. So he just napped.

 

* * *

 

Grayson tried to give him a weapon a total of one (1) time. It was a knife: small, but very sharp, and the metal had a green tint to it. The handle was leather.

"You gotta have something to defend yourself, dude. The Badlands aren't nice."

His skin crawled as he looked at the knife. It sat, innocent, glinting in the sun. How deep could it cut into a man's chest? Was the side sharp enough to cut veins, or would he have to stick to stabbing? How would Maiya react if he plunged it into Grayson's eye-?

He was shaking his head so fast that Grayson looked blurry. Oh, wait. Shit, those were tears. He was crying. Yay. He hated this.

"Hey, hey, Armen, just breathe, man-" Grayson gripped his shoulders, and he was too close; Armen knew he was too close because he was in range to grab his tongue and rip it out like a slug-

He let out a cry, then shoved Grayson, running in a random direction. When he returned an hour later, shoes muddy and arms sore, no one commented. Though Drake held him extra close that night when he woke up screaming again.

 

* * *

 

Blurry days, blurry nights. Everything was blurry and numbing.

The days were spent walking and talking.

The nights were spent sleeping and screaming.

And so it went, for long enough that Armen was most definitely tripping over his own two feet from exhaustion, you'd better believe it! No rest for a tortured soul, he supposed. No rest, no sleep.

Drake was by his side night and day. He carried, talked to, comforted, hugged him. Armen definitely didn't deserve him, not after everything that he'd done. When he woke up, Drake was smiling, for the simple fact that he was happy to see Armen alive. When he went to sleep, Drake was holding his hand, knowing that he'd be woken up three or four hours later to tend to his broken friend. The kindness of it made him want to vomit up his own organs, as disgusting of an image it was. He didn't understand how much it hurt, to do such horrible things and then be treated with the utmost kindness. It was like pouring saltwater into an open cut. It stung, it stung like hell.

 

* * *

 

One night, he'd just- he'd listened to the voice in his head, and he'd snapped. He'd screamed at Drake, telling him to f-off and that he didn't want him to baby him. Drake's ear had quivered, and his eyes watered (god he looked like a puppy), but he'd picked up his sleeping bag and headed back to the middle of the camp, laying down.

It was not a nice night. He'd managed to muffle his screams for the most part, then looked in a panic towards the others (had he really killed them in his sleep? Had he?). Grayson was looking at him, but he quickly laid back down. Drake hadn't even stirred.

The words and feelings that had been choking on for the past weeks finally decided to emerge. He managed to lay down, stuff blanket in his face and burst into sobs. He hated crying: it was gross and made him feel weak. But he couldn't stop himself, he wasn't in control of this fit. This sob spell.

_You are not in control._

That just made him wail harsher, because where had that thought come from it wasn't his! It wasn't his thought or his head or his body, it wasn't his, it belonged to Him. He was broken.

After what felt like forever, his cries wound down to sobs, then childish hiccups and sniffles. Everything hurt and his nose was clogged. It took a moment, but he became aware of something: someone's hand rubbing his back, and a voice going, "Shhhhhhhh...everything's alright."

It was a girl's voice, so he wasn't too surprised to see that it was Maiya beside him. She stopped the motion when he looked up, but a whimper from him got her to keep doing it. It was...soothing, as much as he hated to admit it. Besides, he didn't have any pride left. He had no doubt that she'd just watched his meltdown.

"There you go," she piped, sounding so happy that he almost started crying again. His brain was a tad bit overwhelmed, and this tiny scrap of love was sending him over the edge. "Yeah, the air is- breathing is great."

He laughed. She sounded as awkward as he felt right now. It choked off, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"Are you good now?" She asked. He thought, and slowly nodded. He was...better. He felt like shit, but he was better than before. His hands felt like his own now. She laid down beside him, tummy in the cold grass. "That's good."

He sent her a questioning look that he hoped she understood. Why? She answered, "The boys. They sometimes do this. Cry, that is, or have bad dreams. I'm like their mama."

He gave a snotty laugh. Then he tried to wipe his face off again. "Reg-regular two-kid ma-mama," he got out.

"Three kids, now," she said, patting his curly hair. "Welcome to the messy family. I'm your host, Maiya, and on this week's episode, we ha-"

Armen was laughing again, interrupting her. "Shush, don't be mean!" She whined. She smacked his cheek, making him laugh harder. Now he just sounded like a maniac, he bet.

It took a minute or two for him to calm down completely. He almost forced it out longer, needing every drop of joy he could get after that horrible moment. These horrible days. These horrible nights. Finally, he took a shaky breath, tears dried onto his face. Maiya ruffled his hair, saying, "We all have issues, Armen. It helps to talk about them."

He sighed, feeling heavy again. "It's...not that easy."

"I know."

She did? He looked at her in surprise, about to protest, then slowly laid his head down again. ...She knew. Somehow, she knew that it wasn't that easy. How?

"I was property, once," she said, making him look up again. "A horrible man took me and a few other girls. We were... We didn't belong to ourselves. We were his. He was...made..." She snorted in sudden disgust, the distant look on her face gone in an instant. "He was an assbutt. But I got out." She patted his head a bit roughly. "And so did you."

Suddenly, his problems seemed trivial. If she was saying what he thought she was saying... Then why was she comforting him? He wasn't, hadn't been...violated. Had he? Wasn't that different?

"Maybe it's different," Maiya continued as if she could read his mind. "But talking helps. It gets better after a while."

"How long?" he croaked. He had barely made it this long...

She looked at him, then shrugged. "Depends. But we're here for you, mhm?"

Still stunned from...well, the entire evening, he nodded.

"Good." She leaned down, gave him a goodnight kiss on the cheek (AAAAAAA), then went back to her post to keep watch. "Goodnight."

His mouth gave him one last word before shutting down for the next 24 hours. "Night."

 

* * *

 

When morning came, he apologized formally to Drake, hugged Maiya, and followed Grayson as they trekked south, following a map.

And a new day began.

Blurry days, blurry nights.

 


End file.
